


Remember my name

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Butterfly Effect, Christmas, Christmas Eve, F/M, Fantasizing, Jonerys Advent 2020, Love, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Nostalgia, Romance, Sex, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27921247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: It is the day before Christmas and everything is perfect - almost. Plagued by nightmares, Daenerys knows that there's something she's forgotten. Something she doesn't want to remember. Perhaps it all has to do with a stranger named Jon Snow.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 70
Kudos: 347





	Remember my name

As the first flakes of snow peck the window, the radio crackles: “It’s going to be a white Christmas!”

It is sweltering hot in the kitchen. A scent of spices hang in the dry heat; cinnamon, and nutmeg, and ginger, and cloves. The air is sweet with sticky caramel puddings and browned gingerbread stars and flaky mince pies so fat their warm filling is tearing the crust apart. Daenerys tips a saucepan of candied almonds over a piece of parchment paper, watching the nuts crack and snap as the sugar cools.

The radio asks: “What’s the best part of the season?” and she replies:

“Baking,” and dumps the pan into the sink. The metal fizzes under the cold stream of water, the noise competing with the broadcaster’s laughter as he replies:

“That’s right - the presents!” before launching into a list of last-minute gift ideas available locally. “But if you’re considering giving your heart away this holiday - perhaps think again. Here’s _Wham!_ with _Last Christmas.”_

George Michael’s voice fills the room. Daenerys sighs and leans against the counter, her eyes seeking beyond the fogged up glass to her front yard. She admires the baubles on the fir jiggling in the breeze, and the smooth sheen of frost shimmering on the lawn, and the fairy lights strung across the hedge blinking hopelessly against the pale morning light. She senses she should feel happy, perhaps even at peace. Stockings hang on the fireplace. There are gifts beneath the tree. She has cakes and liquor, and the turkey in the fridge serves a family. She will be eating leftovers of stuffing and potatoes and cranberry sauce for days.

 _And yet,_ she thinks, chewing a dusting of flour off her lower lip as she narrows her eyes. Her right leg bounces. Her fingers tap against the wood. _And yet, I can’t stop thinking about them._

 _They_ are shadows that haunt her sleep. Even now, as she closes her eyes, she can see them; shapeless, formless, tall and imposing, shuffling across her lids as they pry their way inside her mind. They make no sound. They never speak. They remain a quiet nightmare, peering in at her from all cracks of the house until dawn forces them aside. When she wakes, her heart in her throat and sweat bashing down her face, they are always gone.

 _But the memory remains,_ Daenerys thinks bitterly, and she takes a deep breath through her nose and claps the prickling sensation in her cheeks away, _Merry Christmas to me._

The phone rings. Daenerys reaches for the handset, but before she can pick up, a movement outside catches her attention. Something short and pudgy is nosing its way beneath her fir - and biting the decorations into pieces,

“Pretzel!” Daenerys yelps and rushes to the front door. The cold wind blows in from outside and flushes her cheeks, but she doesn’t pause to put on shoes. She scurries across the lawn in her socks and jumper, grabbing at the wriggling, snapping corgi before it can sink its teeth into another bauble. Pieces of red and blue plastic glimmer on its snout. As Daenerys pulls the dog’s heavy body into her arms, it sends her a proud look. “You little-”

“Pretzel, baby!” An old woman hobbles her way around the hedge. She’s dressed smartly in blue, the brim of her hat glittering with freshly fallen snow. _Olenna._ She tugs at her gloves and smacks her lips disapprovingly as she leans in over the garden gate. “He doesn’t like being held,” she calls.

Daenerys sends her neighbour a look of incredulity. “He’s tearing up my garden!”

“He doesn’t like being held,” Olenna repeats with a dismissive wave, “put him down. Come here, Pretzel,” she calls, and the dog twists and turns with such vigour that Daenerys can only let it go. The moment its stubby legs have sunk back into the lawn, it shuffles its way up the path to the gate, happily wagging its tail.

Before Daenerys can think to speak, someone bellows: “Whatta lil’ rascal!” and a man reaches in over the gate, picks up the dog, and hands it to Olenna. He has glowing, brown eyes and a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard set against a red uniform. As he grins at her, Daenerys greets:

“Hello, Davos.”

“Merry Christmas!” the postman returns, tipping his hat, “and good day to you, Miss.”

“It’s _Ms,_ you charmer.” Olenna playfully bumps Davos’ shoulder and smiles to Daenerys: “Au revoir!” before strolling onwards. The corgi hangs over her shoulder, watching Daenerys until they disappear down the street.

Only once they’re out of sight does Davos push the gate open and step inside. He gestures at the broken bauble. “Sorry ‘bout that, Dany.”

“Incredible, isn’t she?”

“Aye, in more ways than t’ one ye thinkin’ off.”

“Oh, please!” Daenerys tries to grimace, but it comes out as a laugh instead. She stuffs the broken pieces into the pocket of her apron before tip-toeing back onto the threshold. As she pulls off her socks, Davos slowly trudges his way toward her. “For how many years have the two of you been flirting? Expecting a Christmas miracle?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he smiles. “What ‘bout yeself, Dany? Saw ye hangin’ in that window, away with t’ fairies ye were. Dreamin’ bout Santa?”

“Something like that,” Daenerys returns his answer with a smirk. She leans against the doorway as the man starts rifling through his bag of letters. “You look a bit like him.”

“Who?”

“Santa. With the beard and the uniform,” she says, pointing to his red get-up.

Davos grunts: “Aye, that’s what t’ kids say. I tell ‘em, I say: _Imma here to see if ye been good all year!”_

“They believe Royal Mail is run by elfs?”

“‘Ey believe anyone who promises ‘em a Game Boy.” Davos hands her stack of letters with a knowing look. “Seven sons, Dany. That’s seven of ‘em little machines. Never hav’ kids, ‘ey bleed ye dry.”

Daenerys chuckles: “Now I know you’re not Santa.”

“Aye, but if I were, I’d come ‘ere first,” Davos replies with a gesture toward the kitchen, “looks like a bakery. Gonna leave anythin’ out fer t’ old man?”

“Come and have a taste,” Daenerys offers and leads the way. She flips through the letters as they walk. Bills. Advertisement. Leaflet from the local church. And a Christmas card: a beautiful robin nestled in the snow, glued glitter making the scene twinkle. She turns it over to read as she says: “I have sugar cookies and ginger biscuits and-”

“Would ye mind losin’ one of those?”

Daenerys peers up to see Davos pointing to a tray of mince pies. “They’re infused with whisky.”

“Even better,” he grins, and she smiles and nods for him to go ahead. As he stuffs his mouth, sultanas and currants sticking to his moustache, she tries to decipher the handwriting. She doesn’t recognise it. She can barely read it; written with a shaky hand, she can just make out a few words: _visit,_ and _family,_ and _well wishes._ It is signed:

“Eddard?” Daenerys cocks her head in bemusement. “Who’s Eddard?”

“What’s botherin’ ye?”

“Other than dogs tearing up my yard?”

“Before,” Davos specifies and brushes the crumbs out of his beard. He grabs another pie off the plate and leans back against the counter as he surveys her. “In t’ window. Ye looked troubled. Somethin’s on ye mind.”

“Hmm,” Daenerys humms, dragging her eyes back down to the card. _Should I say?_ She thinks of her dreams. She thinks of the shadows. She stares at the robin. Then, after a pause, she sticks it back into the pile and throws it to the table, making icing sugar and flour puff into the air. “Just-” she shakes her head, “just having some trouble sleeping.”

“Nightmares?” he asks and, when she nods, he gives her a grave look. “Ghosts?”

“I suppose,” Daenerys shrugs.

“Three of them?”

Daenerys watches him with pause. “Could be?” she says, her voice hesitant. It is hard to tell; they bleed into one in the darkness, sometimes surrounding her, other times bending in over her, a single man stretching his hands out to grab her. As Davos doesn’t say else, she presumes: “Yes, three.”

“D’ye know what day it is?” Davos asks. “‘Tis the day before Christmas.”

“It is,” Daenerys agrees. “What of it?”

“Tis the day before Christmas, and ye’re havin’ dreams of ghosts. I’m sorry, Dany, but it’s obvious,” Davos says and straightens up. In the small kitchen, he is close - so close, in fact, that she can smell the tobacco on his breath, and see the stray hairs shiver above his white brows as he leans in, his hand stretched forward, the edge of his sleeve brushing to her arm.

She expects him to grab at her. She watches him with confusion, breath held, expectantly.

But it’s a lump of almonds at her side that he reaches for, dragging them free of the gooey sugar mass as he quotes: _“Ye will be haunted by three spirits.”_

“Oh!” Daenerys lets go of the breath she’s been holding and sends Davos a tired look. “You’re awful,” she says, and he pops the candy into his mouth and chuckles:

“Of past, present and future! ‘Tis, true, Dany, happened t’ a friend of mine, a _Mr_ _Ebenezer Scrooge.”_

“I thought you actually had some advice.”

“Here’s me bit of advice,” Davos says as he hoists up his bag. “Don’t be alone this holiday, Dany.”

Daenerys sends him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“Ye neighbour told me.”

She grimaces. “Olenna speaks too much.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Davos says and suckles a fleck of cinnamon off his thumb. “No family over, no friends?”

“Maybe next year,” Daenerys says and shuffles on the spot. She is starting to feel the cold from the outside. She glances toward the front door still standing askew, a dusting of snow now covering the threshold.

“Said she invited ye over.”

“Maybe next year,” Daenerys repeats again, this time impatiently. As the old man still watches her, she forces a smile. “I’m fine,” she assures him, “really. I have my reasons.”

Davos licks his lips one last time before nodding. “Of course,” he says, “of course. No bother. Merry Christmas, Dany.”

“Merry Christmas, Davos,” she returns, remaining in the kitchen as he walks back outside. She waves to him through the window, eyeing his red uniform until it disappears down the street in a flurry of snow. Only then does she hurry over and shut the door, locking it with a quick turn of the key. She stands for a moment, staring at her hands on the handle and lock, and she thinks: _I have my reasons._ She just can’t remember them.

Too much to eat. Too much to drink. She doesn’t even like half of the things she’s baked - ginger biscuits? She despises the texture. Toffee pudding? She’s never been fond of sticky desserts. Yet she feels like she has to make them, just like she had to decorate the tree with the awful chipped baubles that _someone_ once gifted her, and hang two stockings instead of one, and fill every windowsill with homemade garlands, the foil crinkled and torn at the edges.

 _It is all for someone else,_ she thinks, _but who?_

The smell of burned biscuits snaps her back to reality. By the time she wrestles the tray out of the oven, the honeyed bites are already blackened, and she feels tired as she brushes the ashes into the bin.

“Remember,” the radio crackles, “this is the season to be jolly!”

Daenerys, topping off her soddy bake with the colourful shards from her apron pocket, replies: “I’m not feeling very jolly right now!”

“Exactly!” the broadcaster says, “so let’s keep that mood going with _Joy to the World._ Here’s _Nat King Cole.”_

* * *

Daenerys bakes. She cleans. She decorates. As the morning makes way for the afternoon, the sunlight growing orange and the shadows reaching further, she ponders on Davos’ words: _Don’t be alone this holiday._

She wonders why she’s not in her childhood home, huddled up by the fire, her mother serving canapes and cocktails. All she has is her card, perched upon the fireplace, the scene of a snowy township reminding her of the remote village she grew up in. It’s almost as pretty as her brother Rhaegar’s letter, the painted wreath decorated with real sticks of cinnamon and bells that jingle. _Of course,_ she thinks, everything looks festive next to Viserys’ greeting: a simple star, the message inside pre-printed and signed in a rush. _To Daenerys, from Viserys._

“Whoever you are, Eddard,” Daenerys says as she nestles the robin in between her brothers’ cards, “I appreciate the thought.”

There’s a knock on the door. On the steps, dressed in a white faux-fur coat and with snow in her brown hair, stands Missandei. Daenerys barely manages to chirp: “Missi!” before her friend drags her in for a hug.

“Dany!” Missandei smiles. Her lips are cold against her cheeks as she pecks her skin. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Daenerys says, sending her a baffled look. “Aren’t you meant to be at the airport?” As if on cue, a car outside the gate honks, and Missandei steps aside and tiredly gestures to the red Toyota.

Grey rolls down the window and shouts: “We’ll be late!” before pulling off his shades as he spots Daenerys. “Merry Christmas!” he waves.

“New car?” Daenerys calls back, looking from Missandei’s exasperated face to Grey’s growing grin.

“That’s right, Dany! Toyota MR2. It’s the one with the supercharged engine, the _4A-GZE!”_

“Thought so!” Daenerys nods, trying not to laugh as Missandei pulls a face. She turns to her with a smile: “Will he drive off if I invite you in for a cuppa?”

“Probably,” Missandie says though she steps inside all the same. “I won’t stay for long. The Mexican beaches are expecting me.”

“Christmas in the sun!” Daenerys sighs and pulls a tin of biscuits from the kitchen cupboard, “imagine that!”

Missandei grabs a sugar cookie between two painted nails as she eyes Daenerys. “You know, you don’t have to just imagine it.”

“Oh, Missi-” Daenerys starts, but her friend interrupts her:

“I mean it, Dany. I’m sure we can get you a last minute ticket.” She leans against the fridge and cocks her brows. “Just think: beautiful beaches, blue water, bulging waiters serving _Woo Woos_ by the poolside.”

“Mhmm, I’m not a big fan of cranberries.”

_“Sex on the Beach?”_

“I’m starting to see it.”

Missandei smirks: _“Slippery Nipple?”_ and Daenerys snaps the tin shut with a laugh:

“Stop it!” She shakes her head and glances out the window. Through the condensation, she can just make out Grey’s impatient face hanging out of the Toyota, his eyes staring down the open door. “I wouldn’t want to come between two people in love.”

“What, Grey and that car?” Missandei scoffs and stuffs the rest of the cookie into her mouth. She chews it down with a satisfied sigh, brushing crumbs off her fingers. “It’s all he talks about. _The best Christmas of my life,_ he said at the dealership when he bought it. Clearly he forgot what time of year we met.”

Daenerys sends her a knowing smile. “You’ll have fun.”

“I know,” Missandei says, and with a determined nod she adds: “And so will you. Christmas alone! It’s inspired, really. Very modern.”

“That’s me,” Daenerys says, throwing her arms out as she gestures to the stacks of baked goods and her worn jumper and the homely decorations, “a real trailblazer.” She feels tired just thinking about it. She still manages to sound chirpy when she continues: “I’ll be fine.”

Missandei looks like she wants to say something, but the car horn honks in the same, and Grey’s shouting shivers through the glass:

“The plane will take off!”

“The plane will take off,” Missandei repeats, and she and Daenerys laugh as they make their way back to the front door.

“Well, have a nice trip,” Daenerys says, but Missandie turns in the same on the path, reaching into her wide coat pockets as she searches for something.

“I almost forgot,” she says, reaching over to hand Daenerys a tiny bunch of green. _Mistletoe,_ all neatly tied up with a red ribbon. As she inspects it, Missandei winks: “In case you change your mind on this whole _trailblazing_ thing.”

Daenerys turns the bunch in her hand, watching the fat, white berries shine in the afternoon light. “Thank you,” she says, “but I think you need to be more than one to get use out of it.”

“It’s the season,” Missandei reminds her, “miracles happen.”

“I sure hope so!” Grey shouts. “We need a bloody miracle to get to Cancun in time.”

Missandei rolls her eyes and takes off with a: “See you in the nineties!”

“Safe travels,” Daenerys calls. She waits until the car is out of sight, then shuts the door and slowly walks to the living room, fiddling with the green. _Christmas miracle._ She suspects that could be it. She’s not just alone, she’s _lonely._ Davos has Olenna. Missandei has Grey. Even Viserys is never without a date, some new petite woman always ready to be shown off for Easter and New Year.

 _But I,_ Daenerys thinks, tip-toeing to hold up the mistletoe at the doorway, _who do I have?_

* * *

That evening, as she sinks into her bath, the bubbles large and popping with the scent of apple and cinnamon, she tries to imagine what _he_ would look like. Not too tall, she supposes, perhaps just an inch above herself would do. Dark curls, and a square chin, and a rough beard, the hair thick and coarse against her cheeks when they kiss. The thought alone almost makes her blush.

“Can you work with that?” she asks the mistletoe. It has been left on the edge of the sink. The bathroom is so hot that condensation is dripping down the tiled walls, landing large drops of water on the berries. They look like they’re sweating in the heat. “A little visit in the night?”

The mistletoe drips quietly. Daenerys sighs. She reaches over, turns on the radio, and lets the host take over the room:

“-with _Last Christmas._ Now, it’s the eve before Christmas, and you know what that means?”

“Nope!” Daenerys replies, blowing the surface of bubbles up into the air. As they slowly drizzle down around her like snow, the radio crackles:

“Right on - it’s a time to spend with those nearest and dearest to us.”

“You as well?” she sighs and sinks deeper into the scalding hot water.

“But sometimes those we love the most can be far away. So this one is for all your lonely lovers out there - it’s _Elvis Presley_ with _It won’t be Christmas.”_

Daenerys closes her eyes. As the lyrics tease the air, she tries to let them soak into her imagination and become one with the fantasy in her head. Perhaps it’s like Elvis sings, she thinks. She’s not alone, she’s just many miles apart from the man in her head. _“But I’ll see you tonight in my dreams,”_ she mimes. She can almost believe it.

 _Almost._ Because by the time she has dried off and dressed in her gown, and she’s safely nestled beneath her warm duvet, _they_ emerge. Shadows; shapeless, formless, like the inside of a closed eye. They flicker across the walls. They urge her to follow them. From their silent pleadings, she tastes desperation, and grief, and fear. She shivers. Sweat prickles her brow. Her body twists and turns in agony. Still they lead her on - out of the bed, the floor cold against the feet, and down the hallway, the lights out, and toward the door.

 _“It’s going to be a white Christmas!”_ The radio crackles. Daenerys blinks toward the pale sunlight. As snowflakes clutter against the window, led by the breeze across her front yard, she can’t help but wonder:

“Was I not just asleep?” She feels tired. Perhaps it’s the heat; the kitchen is boiling, and the air is dry with the scent of spices. She licks the taste of cinnamon from her lips as she grabs the sizzling saucepan off the stove, emptying the gooey mass of candied almonds onto some brown parchment. As she watches the nuts sink in the sugar, the radio goes on:

“What’s the best part of the season?” and she replies:

“Baking?” but the answer doesn’t feel right on her lips. _No,_ she thinks, dumping the pan into the sink, the metal snapping under the cool stream of water, _no, that doesn’t seem right, it’s-_

“That’s right - the presents!” The radio host launches into a spiel on gift ideas, and Daenerys leans against the counter and wipes sweat off her brow, her head heavy and buzzing. “But if you’re considering giving your heart away this holiday - perhaps think again. Here’s _Wham!_ with _Last Christmas.”_

She’s been having nightmares again. She doesn’t have to close her eyes to remember them; shadows, wriggling and wry, big and broody, small and sly. They have kept her awake most of the night, and they’ve left their mark in the shape of a gnawing headache. She drinks a glass of water. It doesn’t help - it is lukewarm before even leaving the tap.

 _It’s the holiday rush,_ her mother would say. The thought alone makes Daenerys laugh. What does she have to rush for? The tree is decorated, and the food is prepared, and the gifts are neatly wrapped and ready - _and even if they weren’t,_ she reminds herself, _it is just me anyway._ The thought makes the smile on her lips stiffen. She throws a confused glance around at the trays of baked goods stacked up in the kitchen, the tupperware boxes on her shelves bursting with golden gingerbread men and slices of chocolate yule log and finely glazed lebkuchen.

“Why,” she whispers with quiet realisation, “am I doing all this?”

The phone rings. Daenerys reaches for the handset, but the cord slips between her fingers as she catches sight of a movement outside. There, just beneath her decorated fir, a chubby corgi is gnawing its way through her string of baubles.

Daenerys yelps: “Pretzel!” and she abandons the phone as she rushes outside. It is bitterly cold, and the fresh snow cools her down immediately, leaving her shivering in her thin jumper and apron. Still she hurries across the lawn, the frosty grass crunching beneath her socks as she rushes over to grab the growling dog. “Didn’t I already tell you-” she starts, but she’s cut short:

“Pretzel, baby!” An old woman dressed smartly in blue leans in over her garden gate. _Olenna._ Her lips are painted smoothly red, the makeup not creasing even when she purses her lips. “He doesn’t like being held.”

Daenerys stares at her neighbour with exasperation. “This is the second time in a row!” she scolds.

Olenna’s brows snap to her forehead. “Second time?” she repeats, her voice full of disbelief. “Pretzel would never do something like that!”

“Something like what?” Daenerys asks and nods to the shattered bauble on the ground. “Something like _that?”_

Olenna snaps her fingers. “He doesn’t like being held,” she repeats, looking thoroughly fed up with the conversation as she instructs: “Put him down. Come here, Pretzel!” The dog twists and turns in Daenerys’ arms, and all she can do is let it jump back toward the hedge. She doesn’t get a chance to say else - seconds later, a man bellows:

“Whatta lil’ rascal!” reaches in over the gate, picks up the dog, and hands it to Olenna. He has kind, brown eyes and a greying beard set against a red uniform. As he smiles at her, Daenerys tiredly greets:

“Hello, Davos.”

“Merry Christmas!” the postman returns, before coyly tipping his hat at Olenna, “and good day to you, Miss Tyrell.”

“It’s _Ms,_ you charmer.” Olenna playfully bumps Davos’ shoulder and winks at Daenerys: “Au revoir!” before strolling onwards. The corgi hangs over her shoulder, watching her until they disappear down the street.

Daenerys sticks her tongue out at it with a grimace.

“Naw, naw,” Davos chuckles as he pushes the gate open and steps inside. “Tis the season fer forgiv’ness.”

“There are not enough churches in the country to take on that task,” Daenerys sighs as she leans down to inspect the decorations. Her fingers brush across the twine, feeling the now empty hanger from the broken bauble. But there’s just the one. “Peculiar,” she mumbles.

“It is?”

“I swear he broke one yesterday too,” Daenerys mutters, “but it’s just the one missing.” As Davos rifles through his bag for her letters, she picks the plastic pieces off the ground and stuffs them into her apron pocket before tip-toeing back to the threshold. Her feet are freezing. She wiggles her toes for heat as she pulls off her socks.

“Perhaps ye dreamt it,” he suggests and hands her a stack of letters. “Saw ye hangin’ in that window, away with t’ fairies ye were. Dreamin’ bout Santa?”

“You look a bit like him,” Daenerys says as she accepts the mail. She smacks her lips. The words feel _odd,_ as if she’s already spoken them.

“Who?” Davos asks unbothered.

“Santa,” Daenerys says, her voice heavy with pause. “With the beard and the uniform,” she says, pointing to his red get-up before asking: “Did we already have this conversation?”

Davos shakes his head. “Nay, but that’s what t’ kids say. I tell ‘em, I say: _Imma here to see if ye been good all year!”_ As she doesn’t reply straight away, he shrugs: “Ah, well, ‘ey believe anyone who promises ‘em a Game Boy. Seven sons, Dany. That’s seven of ‘em little machines. Never hav’ kids, ‘ey bleed ye dry.”

“Uh-huh,” Daenerys nods. She’s eyeing Davos, searching his face for a sign of a jest or _deja-vu._ But the man just looks at her kindly, and after an awkward moment of silence she ducks inside as she offers: “Why don’t you have a biscuit?”

“I’d love t’!” Davos smiles and bashes his hands for heat as he follows her to the kitchen. “Aye, if I were Santa, I’d come ‘ere first, ye see. Whol’ place smells like a bakery!”

As Davos digs into the plate of mince pies, Daenerys flips through the letters. Bills. Advertisement. Leaflet from the local church. And a Christmas card: a beautiful robin nestled in glittering snow, the message signed by:

“Eddard again!” Daenerys shakes her head in bemusement as she scans the card. “Davos, I think you’re sorting these wrong. I don’t know anyone named _Eddard.”_

“Would that b’ ye address?” Davos asks and taps a stumpy finger to the card. When she nods, he shrugs: “Then I’ve done me duty!”

Daenerys stares defiantly at the greeting. _Visit. Family. Well wishes._ She supposes he could be an old, lonely man who’s mixed up his family’s address with hers. _Or,_ she thinks, “I suppose I’m just tired.”

Davos wrestles a sticky sultana out from between his teeth. “That’s what’s botherin’ ye?” he asks. “Saw ye in t’ window. Ye looked troubled.”

“Been haunted by ghosts in the night,” Daenerys says, though she’s not sure why. _Ghosts_ is not how she would describe them. After all, she doesn’t believe in the supernatural, and the shadows are nothing more but a nightmare playing on repeat. Still the grave look Davos sends her makes her ask: “What?”

“Tis the day before Christmas, and ye’re havin’ dreams of ghosts. I’m sorry, Dany, but it’s obvious what’s-a happenin’ ‘ere.” He leans in, breathing the stench of cheap tobacco onto her face as he quotes: _“Ye will be haunted by three spirits.”_

“Oh, don’t _Christmas Carol_ me,” Daenerys sighs and rolls her eyes as the postman chuckles. “I want no more advice from you.”

“Aye, well, hav’ this all t’ same,” Davos says as he hoists up his bag. “Don’t be alone this holiday, Dany.”

“You’re not the first to tell me,” Daenerys replies, though she feels like he is the exact person who has given her the advice previously. She tries to remember when, but just thinking about it makes her head hurt again. She rubs her temples and guesses: “Olenna told you? She speaks too much.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Davos says and suckles a fleck of sugar off his thumb. “No family over, no friends?”

“Maybe next year.”

“Said she invited ye over.”

“Maybe next year,” Daenerys repeats. She has started to sweat. Despite the cold wind bashing in, a heat seems to be boiling inside of her chest. It’s twisting and turning, just like the shadows in the night, stretching their formless shape through her veins. Filling her with grief. She feels like crying. She manages to force a smile as she says: “I’m fine. I have my reasons.”

Davos licks his lips one last time before nodding. “Of course,” he says, “of course. No bother. Merry Christmas, Dany.”

“Merry Christmas, Davos,” she returns, and she watches him through the window as he walks down the street, disappearing in a flurry of snow. Only once he’s out of sight does she lock the door, her eyes lingering on her hands on the handle.

Something is amiss, she knows, she just can’t pinpoint _what,_ but before she can get lost in thought, the smell of burned biscuits snaps her back to reality. Once she wrestles the tray out of the oven, the honeyed bites are already blackened, and she feels tired as she brushes the ashes into the bin.

“Remember,” the radio crackles, “this is the season to be jolly!”

“Maybe next year!” Daenerys snaps back at it and dumps the plastic shards atop the crumbs.

“Exactly!” the broadcaster says, “so let’s keep that mood going with _Joy to the World._ Here’s _Nat King Cole.”_

* * *

Daenerys bakes. She cleans. She decorates. She thinks: _I’ve done this already,_ but she carries on, because the windows are still dirty, and the dust on the shelving unit old. By the time she nestles Eddard’s card in between the others on the fireplace, she’s starting to forget the weirdness of the morning when something on the greeting catches her attention. She pulls it back down. She stares pointedly at the words:

 _“Dear Dany and Jon.”_ Daenerys makes a face. The card is not for her after all. “I guess he saw _Dany_ and just popped it in my pile,” she sighs and puts the card back up. “I’ll give it to him next week.” She makes a move to carry on dusting - but her eyes catch Viserys’ card next. Above the printed _Season’s Greeting!_ , it says: _To Jon and Daenerys._ In fact, she realises as she lets her gaze dance across each letter - from her mum, from Rhaegar, from friends and colleagues - they’re _all_ made out the same way:

_To Jon and Dany._

_Dearest Jon, loveliest Daenerys._

_The happy couple._

A shiver goes down Daenerys’ spine. _Jon,_ she thinks. _Jon, Jon, Jon._ The name seems familiar. The name draws her back to her nightmares: the hallway, dark, and the door, beckoning.

There’s a knock on the door. Daenerys lets go of a yelp in surprise. She almost can’t make herself answer it, her stomach knotted in fear for what she might see on the other side. But she’s barely peeked out before Missandei, dressed in white and with a crown of snow in her hair, throws her arms around her and pulls her in for a hug.

“Dany!”

“Missi!” Daenerys breathes in relief, and she pecks her cheek. “Are you back already?”

“Back? We haven’t left!” Missandei laughs. On cue, a red Toyota outside the gate honks its horn, and she gestures to Grey sitting behind the wheel. “Mr Impatient here is not too happy about it.”

“We’ll be late!” Grey calls before peeling off his sunglasses as he spots Daenerys. “Merry Christmas!”

“Oh, right, you got a new car.”

“How’d you know?” Missandei asks, but Grey just grins in excitement:

“That’s right, Dany! Toyota MR2. It’s the one with the supercharged engine, the _4A-GZE!”_

“I feel like I’ve heard that before,” Daenerys says and rubs her temples. She’s having that feeling again - of _deja-vu._

“Trust me - by now I could list that car’s features in my sleep!” Missandei slips her arm around Daenerys’ shoulders as she guides her to the kitchen. “Invite me in for a cuppa. I need a second away from Romeo there. Oh Dany! You should just come with us. Just imagine: beautiful beaches, blue water, bulging waiters serving _Woo Woos_ by the poolside.”

“Or maybe _Sex on the Beach,”_ Daenerys suggests before she can stop herself. Missandei sends her a look of joyful surprise, and she blushes and quickly digs out a box of baked goods. “Sugar cookies?” she offers and hands them over. As Missandei peels one out of the box with two perfect nails, she adds: “I wouldn’t want to come between two people in love.”

“What, Grey and that car?” Missandei scoffs and stuffs the rest of the cookie into her mouth. “It’s all he talks about. _The best Christmas of my life,_ he said at the dealership. Clearly he forgot what time of year we met.”

 _I’m going to tell her to have fun,_ Daenerys thinks, replying: “You’ll have fun,” _and she’ll commend me for being alone._

“I know,” Missandei says, and with a determined nod she adds: “And so will you. Christmas alone! It’s inspired, really. Very modern.”

Daenerys lets go of a stunned laugh. “I was right,” she says in amazement.

Missandei sends her an odd look. “You were?”

“I feel like I’m in a dream.”

“Do you need to sit down?” Missandei says, but Grey honks the horn in the same, shouting:

“The plane will take off!”

“You get going,” Daenerys says hurriedly as her friend throws her arms out in exasperation. “I’m just… _away with the fairies.”_

“You’re starting to sound like that postman,” Missandei laughs as she strolls out of the door. She’s halfway down the path before she turns on her heels, reaching out her hand. “That’s right, I almost forgot - this one is for you. In case you, you know,” she winks, “decide to be less _modern.”_ She places a perfect bunch of mistletoe in Daenerys’ open hand, the greens tied up with a red ribbon.

“Thank you,” Daenerys says, looking down at the white berries, “but I’ve already got one.”

“Twice the chance of being kissed, then,” her friend replies, her coat swinging as she stalks onwards toward the gate. “See you in the nineties!”

“Safe travels,” Daenerys mutters, closing the door once the car has sped out of sight. She could’ve sworn Missandei gifted her one the day before, and she walks her whole house, checking every doorway only to find all of them empty.

 _I’m losing my mind,_ she thinks, twisting the bunch in her hand as she sighs, _I am truly losing it._

* * *

That evening, as she sinks into her bath, the bubbles large and popping with the scent of apple and cinnamon, she tries to imagine who she would kiss beneath the mistletoe. Someone not too tall, she supposes, perhaps just an inch above herself would do. Dark curls, and a square chin, and a rough beard. Broody grey eyes. Lips that are soft and sweet against her own.

“Can you work with that?” she asks the mistletoe, the bunch of greens hanging on the edge of the sink. “A little visit in the night?”

The mistletoe drips quietly. Daenerys shrugs, reaches over and turns on the radio.

The radio crackles: “-with _Last Christmas._ Now, it’s the eve before Christmas, and you know what that means?”

“Nope!” Daenerys replies defiantly, blowing the surface of bubbles up into the air.

“Right on - it’s a time to spend with those nearest and dearest to us. But sometimes those we love the most can be far away. So this one is for all your lonely lovers out there - it’s _Elvis Presley_ with _It won’t be Christmas.”_

Daenerys sinks further into the bath, her eyes closing as the bubbles fall down around her like soft snow. She’s feeling tired. She’s feeling mellow. The lyrics start blending in with her imagination, and as her eyes bash shut, she thinks that she sees him reflected in the soapy bubbles:

 _A man,_ his grey gaze piercing, his soft lips moving, speaking words she can’t hear as his hands reach for her.

Daenerys jerks upright into the bath with a gasp, staring around the bathroom. Her heartbeat is in her throat. She’s certain she saw someone, saw: “Jon?” She peers between the empty walls. All is as always: the foggy mirror, the wet tiles, the chipped flooring. She’s alone, and lonely, and making things up. _As usual,_ she thinks bitterly.

And as usual, _they_ come: in the night, as she’s nestled beneath her duvet and drifting off to sleep, the shadows emerge. They crawl from the corners of the room and bring her grief, bring her fright, bring her pain. Bring her out of the soft bed and into the chilly hallway, and further still toward the front door, so close that her hand touches the cold metal of the handle.

She turns the knob. The volume on the radio goes up: “It’s going to be a white Christmas!”

Daenerys stares out of the window. It is morning, yet she feels like she hasn’t slept for days. The pale light bashes to the freshly fallen snow and makes her eyes ache. Her head is spinning. She senses she’s going to be sick. As the radio crackles: “What’s the best part of the season?” she finds herself instinctively replying:

“The presents,” and a sensation of bile pushes its way up her throat as the host cheerfully exclaims:

“That’s right - the presents!”

Daenerys grabs onto the sides of the sink and leans over the cool metal. “What is going on?” she whispers. Her voice is faint. Tears are pressing at her eyes. It’s not just the buzzing in her head that’s making her sob - it’s the overwhelming sense of repeat. Of feeling _trapped._ “What is happening to me?”

“But if you’re considering giving your heart away this holiday,” the radio goes on, “perhaps think again. Here’s _Wham!_ with _Last Christmas.”_

As George Michael’s singing fills the kitchen, Daenerys turns on the tap and bashes water to her face. Her cheeks are burning. Her forehead is sticky with sweat. She thinks she should go and lay down, but the idea of _them_ frightens her. _The shadows._ She’s certain they would appear, dancing across her eyelids like the flickering flames of a fire. They creep into her dreams at night and are only banished by dawn.

 _Normally._ Because when Daenerys peers up again, droplets running down her face like salty tears, she sees one staring in at her from outside the yard. Dark, and defined, the edges of its curly black hair and short stature obvious. Its features are washed out beyond recognition - but she can see its eyes. Grey, and beckoning.

Daenerys freezes on the spot. She stares out at the man, and the man stares back in at her. For a second, he is as real as the phone at her side, chiming off the hook. Then the next, he is gone, a flurry of snow washing his shape away into nothing.

“Wait!” Daenerys calls. She is not sure why; she senses she should be terrified, but instead she finds herself desperate to follow him. She bashes the window open, letting the cold breeze cool the kitchen, and she leans as far out over the sill as the counter will let her. She glances around her yard; frost shimmers on the lawn, and fairy lights glimmer on the hedge, and baubles jiggle on her fir, the blue and red plastic glistening wet from the snow. But the man is long gone.

 _Am I going mad?_ she thinks, her gaze flickering at every movement. _Am I losing my mind?_

Her eyes snap to the hedge. Something is moving in between the low-hanging branches. Something small and fat and playful. _Pretzel._ As the corgi waddles its way toward the fir, Daenerys puffs her cheeks up and mumbles: “Not today!”

Pretzel sniffs at the twine of baubles. He bumps a ball with his snout. Then, with a growl at his own reflection, he opens his mouth, bares his teeth, and whines as he’s pulled into the air.

“Not today!” Daenerys repeats, but with less vigour than before. The dog is heavy in her arms, and she can barely speak. Still, the sight of a large, blue hat popping over the garden gate renews her strength. Before Olenna can say a word, Daenerys turns to her with furious eyes as she calls: “Yes, I know! _He doesn’t like being held!”_

Olenna stares at her perplexed. “What are you doing with my baby?” she demands.

“Three days in a row,” Daenerys says, struggling to keep the dog steady as she starts making her way toward her neighbour, “he has wrecked my decorations. And don’t say _he would never,”_ she stops Olenna short, the old woman’s mouth hanging open in shock, “because he would, and he _did.”_

“I have no idea what you’re on about!” Olenna says flustered. “Put him down!”

“Put him on a leash!”

“Whatta lil’ rascal!” Davos pops up from behind the hedge, grabs the dog out of her arms and hands him to Olenna. She sends Daenerys a smug look as she hugs her corgi close. “Miss,” the postman greets.

“It’s _Ms,”_ Daenerys corrects him, arms folded.

Olenna ignores her as she bumps his shoulder. “You charmer,” she says and winks at Daenerys: “Au revoir!”

“Incredible, isn’t she?” Davos asks as he looks longingly after her, and Daenerys steps off the lawn onto the path as she grimaces:

“In more ways than one.” They walk together toward the house, Davos rifling through his bag, Daenerys staring at the open door. Even approaching the steps makes her heartbeat quicken. It’s like she can see herself and Davos already there, having the same discussion about _santas_ and _games_ and _ghosts._

 _It’s all in my head,_ she assures herself as she peels off her wet socks on the threshold, _it’s all-_

“Aye, I look like ‘im, alright,” Davos says unprovoked. When Daenerys turns to eye him, her brows furrowed, he hands her a stack of letters with a knowing look. “Santa, ye know? That’s what t’ kids say. I tell ‘em, I say: _Imma here to see if ye been good all year!”_

“I didn’t ask,” Daenerys says.

Davos merely shrugs. “Must think t’ Royal Mail is run by elfs!”

“Seven sons,” she replies dully, “seven Game Boys.”

“Aye,” Davos nods with surprise. “How’d ye know?”

Daenerys looks down at his hand, still outstretched with her letters. She can already see it - the glittering outline of a robin. She points to it. “That’s not mine.”

“What’s tha’?”

“The card,” Daenerys says firmly, pulling her hand away when Davos tries to offer her the stack, “it’s not mine.”

His moustache ruffles as he purses his lips and withdraws the greeting. “Aye,” he says, looking at it, “it’s fer ye.”

“It’s for someone named Jon,” Daenerys insists.

Davos reads the card. Then he looks her in the eyes. His brown gaze seems fatherly when he asks: “How is Jon? Proposed to ye yet?”

Daenerys stares at him in shock. _Jon,_ she thinks. _He knows Jon._ She parts her lips to speak, but a popping sound from the kitchen distracts her. She smells it before she sees it - the saucepan of candied almonds is looking blackened, the sugar a clutter of dark brown around the edges of the pan. She swears under her breath as she grabs it off the stove and dumps it in the sink, the metal fizzing as the cold water cools it.

“Looks like a bakery!” Davos says as he grabs a few mince pies off a plate. “Ye don’t mind, do ye?”

“Who is Jon?” Daenerys asks and turns to Davos with burning curiosity.

The man chews down on the sticky filling with a satisfied sigh. “Who?” he asks.

“Jon,” Daenerys repeats impatiently. She watches Davos as he peels at the empty piece of parchment, his fingers closing around almonds that were never there. “You just asked if he proposed to me. Who is he?”

“Jon,” Davos muses. His fingers open and close in the air before he pulls back with a headshake. “Don’t know a Jon.”

Daenerys protests: “But you just said-” but Davos cuts her off:

“Ye not sleepin’?” He crosses his arms and raises his brows at her.

Daenerys slumps back against the kitchen counter, hiding her face behind her hands as she mutters: “I can’t take another reference to Dickens.” She feels tired. So, so tired. Her hands are buzzing. Her head is ringing. Her knees are buckling. Shadows grin at her from the prickling darkness of her closed lids. “No more _Mr Ebenezer Scrooge_ or _three spirits will visit_ or _don’t be alone._ No more,” she begs.

“Naw, naw,” Davos says, patting her arm. He smells of tobacco and snow and cold coffee. “Chin up, Dany. Tis Christmas tomorro’ will be just fine, ye see, just fine.”

“I think I’m going mad,” Daenerys whispers behind her palms. She’s pressing them so closely to her eyes that flickers of light dance across her sight. “I really think I’m losing it.”

“No bother,” Davos replies cheerily, seemingly ignorant to the meltdown happening in front of him. He trudges out of the door as he calls: “Merry Christmas!” and Daenerys slips down to sit on the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs, her eyes staring into the air. As the burnt smell of her honeyed bake fills the kitchen, the radio crackles:

“Remember, this is the season to be jolly!” and Daenerys lets go of a shrill laugh as she shouts:

“Joy to the world!” and the host exclaims:

“Exactly! So let’s keep that mood going with _Joy to the World._ Here’s _Nat King Cole.”_

* * *

Daenerys bakes. She cleans. She decorates. She knows: _I’ve done this already,_ but she carries on, unable to figure a better use of her time. But mostly, she is unable to sit still because _he_ lingers everywhere.

A brief flicker of a shadow. A reflection in her cup of tea. The shape of his body just out of sight, only ever seen at the corners of her eyes. It is like he is everywhere, in every shiny surface, in every dark nook. In every Christmas card:

_To Jon and Dany._

_Dearest Jon and Daenerys._

_For J + D._

Daenerys turns Eddard’s card between her hands as she glances across the greetings on the fireplace. There are the ones she expected - like the snowy landscape from her mum, and the beautiful letter from her brother Rhaegar, and the plain star from Viserys. But there are also ones she doesn’t recognise.

She pulls down the one with a family of teddies hand-painted on thick cream paper, and reads a message from a Sansa Stark. Next, there is a photograph of a snowball fight, cheekily signed by someone named Arya. It continues: childish drawings by Rickon, and a kind greeting from a Jeor Mormont reminding them to visit, and a couple named Margaery and Robb inviting them over for New Year to celebrate two becoming three. The woman on the enclosed picture is pregnant. The sight alone makes Daenerys’s heart ache.

“Who are you?” she mumbles as she places the card back on the fireplace, Eddard’s robin nestled in the midst. She feels like she knows the answer. It is on the tip of her tongue, but just out of reach. She’s just sure that it all comes back to:

 _“Jon,”_ she whispers. She’s looking into the mirror above the fireplace, and the reflection of a man looks back at her. She recognises him from earlier; dark, his face washed away in the shadows, yet his grey eyes piercing and clear. He’s right behind her, so close that she thinks she can smell him; cologne, and heat, and _love._ It seems to emerge from him, more so as he reaches out his arms, rounding on her waist to pull her in for a hug. And she feels herself stepping back to let him, her body eager to succumb to his touch. Eager to be held. Eager to be remembered.

There’s a knock on the door. Daenerys’ gaze snaps to the hallway in surprise. By the time she looks back in the mirror, there’s just her own pale self staring back, and she lets go of a frustrated sigh before storming over to open up.

Missandei stands outside dressed in white. “Dany!” she cries excitedly, and Daenerys forces a smile:

“Hey, Missi,” as she’s dragged into a hug. It’s warm. It’s real. _The reflection is just a dream,_ she tells herself. When Missandei pecks her cheek, she can feel it, and when she squeezes her hands, she knows she’s there. _But what is real anymore,_ Daenerys thinks, barely listening as her friend’s lips move in chatter, _and what is in my head?_

“I know, I know,” Missandei says, “we’re meant to be at the airport by now.”

A car honks. Grey shouts out of the window: “We’ll be late!” before greeting Daenerys: “Merry Christmas!”

“Ahh!” Daenerys says with a knowing nod. “That’s right, the Toyota MR2 with a supercharged engine, the _4A-GZE.”_

Missandei and Grey both send her a stunned look. “How do you know?” Missandei asks, and Daenerys shrugs as she waves for her to follow.

“Come have a biscuit and convince me to go to Cancun,” she urges, pulling down a random tin. It doesn’t matter - it’s full of sugar cookies anyway.

“You’re acting weird,” Missandei says as she pulls a cookie from the tin.

“Go on,” Daenerys says and seats herself on the edge of the counter, her slippers almost falling off her feet as she bounces her heels to the cabinet. “Tell me about the beautiful beaches and blue water and _bulging waiters_ giving me _Sex on the Beach.”_

Missandei laughs so hard crumbs fly from her lips. “Stop it!” she says and pushes Daenerys’ shoulder with a wry grin. Her cheery expression almost makes Daenerys smile, and she feels her cheek soften as she asks:

“Wasn’t that what you were going to say?”

“As if!” Missandei rolls her eyes. “Could you imagine? Jon would never leave the shade!”

The smile on Daenerys’ face stiffens. She stares at Missandei. “Did you just say _Jon?”_

Missandei furrows her brows. “I don’t think so?” she says, her voice hesitant.

“You did,” Daenerys insists. As Missandei backs towards the hallway, she slips off the counter and follows her. “You did, you said _Jon.”_

“Who is Jon?”

“I don’t know!” Daenerys throws out her arms in exasperation. “You tell me!”

“If you’re dating someone, don’t worry,” Missandei says and winks. “I’ll keep your secret from Olenna, that tattletale.”

“I’m not dating someone.”

“Are you not dating Jon?”

“Jon who?”

“I don’t know!” Missandei is in such a rush to get out of the door that she almost trips over the threshold. She stops on the path, sending Daenerys a worried look as she shivers in her coat. “Dany, are you feeling okay?”

Daenerys leans against the doorway. With the warm house behind her and the cold yard stretching ahead of her, she feels like she has for the past few days - trapped, in a state in-between, never quite sure of where she fits in. _For how long have I been carrying on like this?_ she wonders, taking in a deep breath through her nose. She feels like crying.

Missandei’s hand in hers makes her look down with a sniffle. “Here,” her friend says, pressing a bundle of mistletoe to her palm. When she looks into her golden eyes, she smiles: “For you to kiss Jon or _whoever_ under.”

The car honks. “It’ll take a miracle to get there on time!” Grey calls.

“You better go,” Daenerys says, closing her hand around the bunch. She wants to say: _You’ve already given me this._ But instead, she smiles and nods confidently. “I’ll be fine. Safe travels.”

“Right,” Missandei says. She still doesn’t look sure, but when Grey revs the engine, she finally lets go of Daenerys’ hand and hurries onwards. “See you-” she calls over her shoulder.

“-in the nineties,” Daenerys finishes her sentences in a whisper. Just like that, they are gone, the red car speeding down the street, and she’s once more left to stare at the mistletoe and think:

_Am I just lonely?_

* * *

The bath smells of apple and cinnamon. Daenerys is submerged in the scalding water, her eyes closed, her head spinning. She tries to imagine the man she’s been seeing all day. She tries to determine what he looks like behind the shadows, beneath the dark curls, beyond his thick beard. Beyond his grey eyes.

 _Jon Snow._ The thought occurs to her out of the blue. That is his name, she’s certain. _Jon Snow._

“Does that seem right?” she asks the mistletoe, the bunch of greens hanging on the edge of the sink. “Is Mr Snow visiting me in the night?”

The mistletoe drips quietly. Daenerys laughs from tiredness, reaches over and turns on the radio.

It crackles: “-with _Last Christmas._ Now, it’s the eve before Christmas, and you know what that means?”

“I’m a lonely lover!” Daenerys replies playfully, splashing the surface of bubbles up into the air.

“Right on - it’s a time to spend with those nearest and dearest to us. But sometimes those we love the most can be far away. So this one is for all your lonely lovers out there - it’s _Elvis Presley_ with _It won’t be Christmas.”_

The bubbles dribble down around her. Daenerys watches their soapy surface reflect the bathroom; the tiled walls, the dripping tap, the colourful shampoo bottles, and Jon.

He is above her, naked and strong, his grey eyes beckoning, his full lips pleading. He is a fantasy, but he feels real. So real, in fact, that when Daenerys reaches up and pushes her hands through his hair, it doesn’t disappear like soap. It stays strong like curls, just like his body remains warm like flesh, and his lips taste sweet like reality.

 _I am lonely,_ she thinks, letting her fingertips play across his shoulders, _and I am in need._

He is above her. He is atop of her, pressing her into the water, making her kick her legs and arms to stay afloat. He is heavy. He is greedy. He is in her mouth, his tongue licking her teeth and tasting her. He is on her body, his hands desperate and loving, feeling every inch of her skin. And he is inside of her.

Daenerys gasps as her fingers enter her sex, and she bashes her eyes open to find herself alone in the bath. The bubbles are long gone. The water is growing cold. Her orgasm, hinged on the image of the handsome stranger, seems to evaporate just as quickly.

 _“Baby when are you coming home,”_ Elvis sings, making Daenerys bitterly reach for the radio, _“let me know, let me know, let me kno-”_

She dries off. She dresses for bed. She crawls beneath the duvet, unhappy and unsatisfied, her body tingling with desire. _I am stupid,_ she thinks again and again, scolding herself for letting her imagination take over. _I am stupid, and lonely, and pathetic._ Still, the image of Jon plays on repeat in her head - him, above her, and him, inside of her. And him, a shadow:

it leads her, as always, out of the bedroom, and down the hallway, the darkness tight and cold around her. The front door stands brooding before her. She doesn’t want to see what is beyond, sensing that knowing will only bring her grief. But she grabs the handle, she turns the knob, and she opens up to the two men.

They stare in at her. She stares back. Tears linger at her eyes. She whispers: “Please,” and one of the men opens his mouth and says:

_“It’s going to be a white Christmas!”_

Daenerys sinks down over the sink as she sobs: “What is going on!” It is morning. The kitchen is hot. Almonds snap in the saucepan, and a scent of honey simmers around the oven. She knows that the traybake will burn, just like she knows that the radio will inevitably ask:

“What’s the best part of the season?” and, when she remains quiet in defiance, answer itself: “That’s right - the presents!”

 _The day repeats itself,_ she thinks, _again, and again, and again - and for how long?_ She feels out of breath. Her heartbeat is in her throat. Sweat drips down her back. She tries to reason with herself, but she can’t. No more deja-vu. No more wondering if she’s going mad. When the radio crackles:

“But if you’re considering giving your heart away this holiday - perhaps think again. Here’s _Wham!_ with _Last Christmas,”_ she _knows_ that she’s already lived through the day. She _knows_ that time is at a standstill.

And she _knows_ that it has something to do with _him._

 _He_ stands in the window. _Jon Snow._ When Daenerys peers up into his grey eyes, she feels her stomach twist. His face is no longer washed out in shades of black. It is clear, and defined; from his furrowed brows to his thick nose to his soft lips to his sharp beard. He watches her kindly, the way she imagines any man watches the woman he loves, and when she meets his gaze, he smiles.

“Who are you?” Daenerys asks. She presses her fingertips to the cold glass as she traces his outline. Condensation drips, blurring his expression. Still she sees his hand as it raises, as it presses to the window, as it lingers above hers, the thin sheet of glass the only thing between them. She senses his heat - she senses that he is there, just outside, waiting for her. She leans closer. “What do you want?”

The phone rings. Jon’s lips part. She expects him to speak - but instead, blood seeps down from the corners of his mouth, cascading across the white dusting on the sill, flickering onto the glass like red snow.

Daenerys cries in surprise: “No!” and she slams her other hand to the window as she stares out at him in horror. Yet, as the white in his eyes turn red and the skin on his cheeks flush with bruises and his hair grows damp with blood, he just smiles. He steps backwards. He disappears in the falling snow. “No!” Daenerys shouts again and bashes the window open. The wind blows in at her, cold and unfriendly, and she hangs out over the sill, panting and scared, her eyes desperately scanning her garden for him.

But he is gone.

Daenerys takes in a shivering breath. This time, she can’t hold back her tears. They slip down her cheeks in streams as she grabs at the snow, hopelessly searching it for blood. Her fingers ache from the cold. Her palms turn stiff. By the time she’s cleared the sill, she’s found no trace of anything but gravel and dirt.

She doesn’t bother closing the window - she scurries back inside, and she sinks onto a chair, staring at her blushing, quivering hands as she thinks: _he is hurt._ The thought makes her throat knot up, and she has to force herself to breathe. Something is opening up in the back of her mind. Something is allowing the shadows to return; large, and looming, kissing goosebumps to her skin and making her spine shiver. They urge her to get up, to go to the door, to open it. She knows what is waiting outside: Pretzel, biting up her baubles, and Olenna, making her snooty remarks, and Davos, laughing at everything. _Repeat,_ and _repeat,_ and _repeat._

Yet the shadows are not the only ones reaching out to her. It’s just a flicker, barely noticeable, but Daenerys sees it:

“Jon.” She stares out of the kitchen door as the bottom of a pair of shoes disappears up the stairs and out of sight. She listens. She hears no footsteps. All is quiet.

Daenerys’ fingers dig in around the edge of her apron. Then, she stands up, turns off the oven, and heads to the hallway - past the front door, the sound of barking and bellowing already ringing outside, and up the stairs, her steps determined.

 _I don’t need the day to repeat,_ she thinks, her gaze seeking door on her right as it creaks open, just barely, letting out a stream of sunlight, _I just need to find out who he is._

Daenerys steps into a small office space. The window is cracked open. Outside, she can hear Davos call to her:

“Saw ye hangin’ in that window, Dany, away with t’ fairies ye were. Dreamin’ bout Santa?”

Daenerys ignores him. She is too busy gazing around the room. She doesn’t remember it. In fact, she realises, she doesn’t remember having been upstairs for a while. The place is unfamiliar, from the heavy oak desk to the diplomas on the wall and the old shelving unit against the back, its shelves bending from the weight of numerous leather bound books. It is someone else’s office, and someone else’s calendar open on the desk, with someone else’s appointments scribbled in. _Dentist,_ she sees, and _pick-up_ for 9am today on Christmas Eve, and _Family: Airport_ scheduled for Christmas Day.

But what catches her attention is a picture on the desk. There, framed in gold, is:

“That’s me,” Daenerys says, picking up the photo as she surveys it, “and that’s-” _Jon Snow,_ standing next to her. They are both dressed for prom; he with long, black hair brushing down his blue tuxedo, and she in bright pink and white gloves, her hair a silver curls. They’re holding hands. They’re smiling awkwardly at the camera. She turns the picture with amusement and reads the date on the back: _1978._

She remembers: balloons, the smell of the school carpet, the live band playing _Stayin’ Alive,_ the punch that someone poured vodka into. She remembers holding Missandei’s hands as they danced, their gloves shining and crackling. And she remembers her heels slipping when she turned and saw Jon approach, his handsome face bathed in the soft light from above, the smile on his lips gentle.

Outside, Davos shouts: “If ye wan’ Santa, I’ve been told I look like ‘im!.”

Daenerys snaps back to reality. She glances toward the window. She can hear the snow crunch beneath the old postman’s boots as he circles the lawn, seemingly unaware that he’s being ignored as he bellows:

“Aye, that’s what t’ kids say. An’ I tell ‘em, I say: _Imma here to see if ye been good all year!”_

Daenerys feels awful ignoring an old friend, but somehow she knows: _I can’t go back down._ If she acknowledges him, she acknowledges the day, and it all carries on, and on, and on. _No,_ she thinks, her gaze slipping from the outdoors to the shelving unit, _I need to keep going._

She takes in a sharp breath. She rolls up her sleeves. Then, with an air of determination, she grabs at the first photo album she sees, flips it open on the desk, and dives in. The pictures are neatly kept behind sheets of plastic, the year and place marked in blue ink next to each of them. She leans down and inspects the first one:

 _1979 - Falmouth._ They’re on the beach, the sun boiling, the water bashing against the shore. They’re eating ice creams. She can still taste it; pistachio and strawberry. Jon is in shorts. She is in a striped bathing suit. They look at each other and laugh. She thinks she remembers it - the sunburn, and the drive home, just like she remembers;

 _1982 - Manchester._ The student flat is worn down, but clean. Jon is playing the guitar. Daenerys is singing. They’re smoking. They’re drinking. They’re smiling, their friends sitting around them in pairs, everyone in love with someone. They’re poor. It doesn’t matter. The taste of tinned baked beans gets normal after a while, just like the feel of him sends her safely to sleep every night. It’s like she can feel him now, close and happy, just like they were in;

 _1986 - Edinburgh._ The city is decorated with lights. The shops are bursting with toys and food and wrapped gifts. They’re walking the street, hand in hand, his suit smart and her coat in fashion, the first branded item she ever owned. He had a promotion. She was so proud she could burst. They invited the family out for dinner. They linger in the background, washed out faces split with smiles, the same joy they felt in;

 _1988 - Bath._ It’s their house; a small, terraced, three-bedroom place with a roof that leaks and a garden that’s overgrown and neighbours that snoop on everything they do. But it’s _theirs._ They _own_ it. They _live_ in it. They _make love_ in it. They are:

“Us.” Daenerys blinks at the man in the doorway. Tears are clinging onto her lashes, just like blood is marking his. It looks old and stiff. He looks tired and pale. “We live here,” she whispers to Jon, “together. We _are_ together.”

Jon smiles. Davos calls: “I’ve left ‘em cards under t’ door fer ye!” and Daenerys’ gaze flickers to the window, the shape of the old man disappearing down the street, before she looks back at the doorway. _Empty._

Downstairs, the radio crackles: “Remember, this is the season to be jolly!”

Daenerys takes in a shivering breath as she hugs the photo album to her chest and whispers: “I am not alone.” The words feel strange to speak, but she knows them to be true at once. She is not lonely, and she is not alone. She has someone. She has _Jon. But what happened to him?_ she wonders, feeling a sense of dread as shadows flicker down the hallway, creeping their way downstairs, _and what happened to me?_

“Exactly!” the host says, “so let’s keep that mood going with _Joy to the World._ Here’s _Nat King Cole.”_

* * *

Daenerys doesn’t bake. She doesn’t clean. She doesn’t decorate. She spends the day in front of the fireplace, tracing the names on the cards back to the old photos in the album. _Eddard,_ she learns, is Jon’s father, a homely looking man with brown hair and kind eyes. _Sansa_ and _Arya_ are his sisters, both pretty and opposites in all they do, the older studying and the younger a fierce hippie. _Robb_ is his brother, a proud man who has never stopped smiling on camera since meeting _Margaery_ , the love of his life.

 _And Margaery,_ Daenerys realises with nonplussed amusement, _is Olenna’s granddaughter._

It’s all there, in scattered photographs and snippets of letters. A whole life that she has forgotten. Daenerys drags her arms around her knees as she stares at the mess of memories in front of her. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. The world is running on repeat, and she’s lost anything of meaning. All she has left are bits of conversations with those around her, baking aplenty, and an endless amount of nightmares in the dark.

 _What is the point of it all,_ she thinks, closing her eyes with a sigh, _if it’s all gone?_

Jon’s breath pecks her nape. His arms close in around her. His chest presses to her back, warm and strong.

Daenerys gasps, but she doesn’t dare to open her eyes. Whenever she sees him, she knows she’s about to lose him. He disappears in the snow. He flickers away with the shadows. He becomes _nothing_ in an instant. So she sits still, her eyes tightly closed, her lips pursed and her brows furrowed, and she lets him hold her, lets him kiss her neck.

Lets him turn her face, push his hands into her hair, and press his lips to hers.

The kiss is warm. His tongue is wet. It claims her mouth with a greed she remembers from the bath. As her heart throbs in her throat, she blindly reaches out and takes a hold of his strong, black curls. They slip between her fingers. Her hand seeks his shoulders. She turns, her arms slipping around his neck as his hands grab at her waist, and she silently begs:

 _Take me._ She doesn’t speak, she just thinks it, but Jon seems to understand all the same. The kiss grows deeper, it grows more desperate. She can taste smoke on his tongue, and whisky, and the cold, as if he’s swallowed the snowy breeze and carried it with him. She can feel him beneath her jumper, his fingers tickling her waist, his hands rounding her breasts. And she can smell him: cologne on his neck. Snow in his hair. Blood on his cheek.

There’s a knock on the door. Daenerys opens her eyes and finds herself alone in the living room, kneeling amongst the open albums, her lips sore from kissing. She feels like kicking herself. _I’ve lost him,_ she realises, glancing around for a slipper of his shadow but not even finding that, _again._

“Dany!” Missandei calls from the other side of the door. “Dany, are you home?”

Daenerys swallows. She knows she should ignore her, knows that she should not give in to the _repeat._ But when Missandei knocks again, her voice thick with worry as she calls:

“Dany!” she can’t help but answer the door. On the steps, dressed in a white faux-fur coat and with snow in her brown hair, stands Missandei. Daenerys barely manages to say: “Missi!” before her friend pulls her in for a hug.

“What’s with you!” Missandei scolds lightly, though she’s smiling. “I thought you died!”

“I was just-” Daenerys pauses, glancing back into the living room at the photographs, _“-busy.”_

“Right,” Missandei replies, throwing a look the same way, her brows quirked. “Growing nostalgic?”

“Something like that,” Daenerys smiles tiredly. She can’t help but see images of Jon flicker across her mind. From photographs, young and handsome, and from this morning, bruised and battered. She chews on her lower lip as Grey honks the horn in the same.

“We’ll be late!” he calls, followed by: “Merry Christmas!” as he spots Daenerys.

“That man and his car!” Missandei sighs, and Daenerys wrecks her brain for a quick way to send them on their way when her friend asks: “Is Jon the same with his?”

“Jon?” Daenerys says. A shiver goes down her spine. She stares at Missandei with big, round eyes. “You know Jon?” She feels it, _deja-vu._ She’s had this conversation before, and she’s certain what the answer will be: _who is Jon?_

But to her surprise, Missandei replies: “Of course I know Jon.” There’s confused laughter in her voice, and she peers at Daenerys with furrowed brows. “Dany, do you feel okay? You look pale.”

“How do you know Jon?” Daenerys asks. She grabs a hold of Missandei’s hands, tightly squeezing them in her own as she stares into her brown eyes. “Do you know where he is? Do you know why he’s hurt?”

“Jon is hurt?” Missandei asks, her gaze flickering from her hands to Daenerys’ face. She looks to be in pain herself, flinching as Daenerys’ grip tightens, yet she makes no move to pull back.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys breathes. Her voice is tinted with desperation. She regrets not opening the door for Davos earlier. If Missandei remembers Jon, perhaps so would he. Her head buzzes. She’s starting to feel a pain spread from her temples. It’s like her mind is trying to shut down, blocking out her knowledge, making it hard for her to speak. She grits her teeth together and closes her eyes as she fights the pain. The shadows flicker across her eyes. She feels them jeering at her.

“Are you talking about my car?” Grey shouts. “Nice, isn’t it? Toyota MR2. It’s the one with the supercharged engine, the _4A-GZE!”_

“No one cares about your car!” Missandei calls back, but she never once looks away from Daenerys. She leans in, her face brimming with concern as she asks: “Are you okay?”

Daenerys shakes her head. “Something’s happened,” she says.

“With Jon?” Missandei asks and, when Daenerys nods, she slips free of her grasps and wraps her arm around her shoulders. “Come,” she urges as she guides her to the kitchen, “let’s sit you down.”

The kitchen is cold. The window still hangs open from the morning. As Daenerys slumps into a chair, Missandei pulls it shut and pours her a glass of water. It dulls her ache a little. “Thanks,” she whispers with a small smile.

Missandei leans back against the counter, her painted nails tapping to the edge. “What’s happened?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys admits. She feels stupid saying it, and she peers into the water, her reflection peering back up at her. What can she say? That she’s been haunted by Jon, that she saw him bleed in the window, that she felt him touch her in the empty living room? _She would think I’ve gone mad,_ Daenerys presumes, _but I have to say something._ To buy herself a few more seconds, she empties the glass of water, slams it back down onto the counter, and fakes a smile. “I’m just tired,” she lies.

“Of Jon?” Missandei asks, quirking a brow.

Daenerys suckles on her inner cheek. She thinks of the way Jon watched her from behind the window - with pure love. “No,” she knows instinctively, “not of Jon.”

“Do you want to swap?” Missandei jests. “I’d take him rattling on about publishing over Grey’s cars any day.”

“Right,” Daenerys says, something snapping into place in her brain, “Jon is a writer.” She knows it at once to be true; a journalist, always chasing a new story, always hunched up in his office until past midnight, scribbling away.

Missandei sends her an odd look. “Yes, he is,” she agrees slowly. “Dany, are you sure you’re okay?”

The car outside honks. “The plane will take off!”

Daenerys stands up. “I’m fine,” she promises and brushes down her jumper with a small smile. As Missandei still doesn’t move, she gives her an urgent nod towards the door as she repeats: “I’m fine! Really. Mexico is waiting.”

It looks like she chose the right thing to say. Missandei flushes with glee and agrees: “Beautiful beaches, blue water, and bulging waiters, here I come!”

“Go get that _Sex on the Beach,”_ Daenerys laughs, and Missandei chuckles as she steps over the threshold, swings around on her heels, and hands Daenerys a bunch of greens.

“And you go get your Jon,” she says, placing the mistletoe in Daenerys’ hand. She sends her a knowing look, and Daenerys can’t help but to feel she means something more than usual.

So she closes her hand around the bunch, nodding slowly, Missandei still keeping her gaze locked. “Right,” she says, her lips suddenly dry “I will.”

“You will,” Missandei agrees. She pulls away, winks, and then trudges off toward the car.

As the red Toyota takes off down the street, Daenerys leans against the doorway and looks at the mistletoe. It is small, the berries white, the bow soft. Missandei’s words play on repeat in her head: _you go get your Jon._

“Jon,” she whispers, sensing him behind her, his body so close that she can feel his heat, “will I have you back?”

* * *

The bathroom is soaked in the scent of apple and cinnamon. The bubbles are large and wet, snapping against the tiles, drizzling soap down onto the mistletoe. The green bunch is hanging on the edge of the sink. Daenerys watches it with particular care as she recalls Jon:

dark curls, and grey eyes, and thick nose, and strong chin, and sharp beard, and soft lips. _But,_ she thinks, her eyes closing as she sinks further into the warm water, _I know much more of him now._ Somehow, she sees him:

his shoulders, broad and square. His arms, welcoming and strong at once. His chest, pale and scarred. His cock, hard and ready.

The radio turns on with a click: “-with _Last Christmas._ Now, it’s the eve before Christmas, and you know what that means?”

 _“Jon,”_ Daenerys whispers. She knows it, though she doesn’t dare to open her eyes. Still the image of him plays before her lids. How he shrugs out of his robe, kicks off his slippers, steps into the bath. The water moves. Soap spills down the sides of the tub. When he crawls atop of her, sweat starts prickling at her skin. He is warm, and he is close, and his lips hover just above hers. She can taste his breath.

“Right on,” the radio crackles, “it’s a time to spend with those nearest and dearest to us.”

 _“Jon,”_ Daenerys whispers again. Her hands push up, across the shape of his face, her thumbs tracing his features. She remembers what she has forgotten; the stray hairs by his lips, the faint scar across his eye, the wrinkles on his forehead.

“But sometimes those we love the most can be far away. So this one is for all your lonely lovers out there - it’s _Elvis Presley_ with _It won’t be Christmas.”_

_“Jon.”_

He kisses her. He claims her. Softly, and roughly, in a flurry of emotions. She is sad, and excited, and happy, and scared, and desperate all at once. Her heart beats quickly in her chest. Her fingers grab longingly at his hair. As his hands move down her body, feeling her every inch, she senses she could burst from his touch.

One moment, they’re in the bath, their lips crashing, their tongues meeting, their bodies moving, and Elvis sings: _“‘Cause it won’t feel like Christmas without you.”_ Then, the next second, she is in his arms. She feels weak. He feels strong. He holds her as he carries her, and she nestles to his neck, her eyes tightly shut, her body trembling with the fear of losing him again.

 _Do not look,_ she tells herself, again and again, even as Jon leads her to their dark bedroom, as he places her on the bed, as he slips down atop of her, his hands inquisitive at her sex. _Do not look,_ she pleads with herself, even as Jon kisses her, even as he drags her thighs onto his hips, even as he settles between her legs. _Do not look._

But as Jon sinks into her, his cock stretching her warm inners, her eyes bash open with a gasp. And he is there: above her, as real as anything, his grey eyes watching her with care as he slowly starts taking her. His thrusts are deep. His hands are moving. He knows her; how she likes to be touched, how she likes to be kissed, how she likes to be fucked. He is not a shadow. He is not a fantasy. He is:

“Jon,” Daenerys whimpers. His name is hot on her lips. Her breath is parched. Her body is succumbing to the feeling of need. As he takes her, her arms lock around his neck, and she pulls him down into a kiss, his name sweet on her tongue as she whispers it over and over again, each time knowing him a bit more.

“Jon,” she remembers; baking for the holiday, his face a blushing delight at every bite, his hands covered in flour as he held her and kissed her. And she whispers:

“Jon,” and she remembers; cards sent at Christmas to their own address, a shared moment of laughter when they pretended to still be courting, the message always one of love. And she whimpers:

“Jon,” and she remembers; standing close under the mistletoe, their noses bumping, their lips touching, their breath warm with cocoa and cheer. And she moans:

“Jon!” She comes with a cry. A sob gets stuck in her throat. Her back arches, and Jon’s strong hands holds her, guides her through her orgasm, never once leaving her wanting. She sinks into the duvet. She feels the darkness closing in around her. As her body cools beneath the sweat, and her legs stop shaking from pleasure, and her eyes adjust to the dark, the feeling of satisfaction is soon washed away with a sense of overwhelming fear.

 _Shadows._ They’re above her, next to her, around her. And they urge her to walk the hallway to the door. She can hear them outside. They’re knocking to be let in. She swallows and clenches her hands tightly around the covers.

“You should answer the phone.”

The sound of someone’s voice makes Daenerys sit up with a yelp. She stares around the bedroom, certain that someone strange has entered her house. But then she spots him - on the bed, by her side, is Jon.

He peers up at her, his grey eyes sharp in the blackness, and he repeats: “You should answer the phone.”

Daenerys swallows. She takes in a sharp breath through her nose. “Why?” she asks. Her voice comes out as a shiver.

Jon doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He just repeats: “You should answer the phone.”

The knocking intensifies. Daenerys feels the shadows drag at her. She has no choice; in a robe, she slippers down the hallway, through the darkness, over to the front door. Her hand closes around the cool metal. She twists the handle. She peers out at the two men. They’re in uniform, the metal on their chest lightly shimmering in the light from the streetlamps. _Police._ One of them slips off his hat.

“Miss Targaryen?” he asks, and Daenerys shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers.

“Miss Targaryen, I am so sorry to tell you,” the officer continues, “but there has been an accident.”

“No,” Daenerys repeats. Tears slip down her cheeks. Her knees tremble. She is certain that if she wasn’t clinging onto the handle, she would collapse onto the floor. But the shadows outside either don’t notice or don’t care. They just continue:

“I’m afraid your partner didn’t make it.”

 _“No!”_ Daenerys cries, leaning against the doorway, sobbing so hard that she can barely breathe. “No, no, no!” she shouts again and again. But she knows it to be true.

Jon left before she woke up, and he never made it back. Stuck on repeat, she’s been praying for a different outcome, hoping to never again see the men on the threshold, begging to no longer be burdened by the cold hand of grief currently gripping at her throat.

She begs: “No,” and the phone rings.

Daenerys stares into the kitchen. It is morning in there. For a moment, she flinches, assured that the day has started over once more. Certain that she has to live the rest of her life in the last happy day of her memory. But when she glances back at the policemen, darkness still reigns behind them.

 _They are stuck in their part,_ she realises, her gaze slowly dragging back to the phone still ringing in the pale morning light, _but I have a chance at another._ She hesitates. She remembers:

_You should answer the phone._

“Miss,” the officer says, “you should take a seat.” But Daenerys ignores him, her hand reaching for the kitchen doorway as she musters every ounce of strength in her to make her legs move. She stumbles over the threshold. She can barely remain upright, prodding herself against the counter, feeling the sun warm her skin as she stares back at the policemen shrouded in darkness.

She swallows. She reaches out. She picks up the phone. “Hello?”

 _“Dany!”_ a man laughs on the other end. His voice is warm and husky. She recognises it at once:

“Jon,” she whispers. She’s still staring at the officers, and they are glaring back at her, the blackness around them growing even darker.

 _“I was about to hang up - I thought you were still asleep!”_ Jon teases.

“No,” Daenerys replies quietly, breathing in, “wide awake.”

_“Right, well, I just wanted to say that I’m on my way back. I should see you in an hour.”_

“Okay,” Daenery replies, her voice still faint. Her whole body is trembling. She can barely keep a hold of the phone. But she senses that she must go on, no matter how violently the shadows in the hallway move and wriggle, pleading with her to come back to them. “I’ll see you in an hour then.”

 _“See you! Oh, and Dany-”_ Jon pauses. Daenerys holds her breath. She can hear how he smiles when he adds: _“I love you.”_

Glass shatters. Metal bends. There’s a shriek of rubber burning the ground. Screams. Cries. Sounds of panic. Daenerys’ grip on the phone tightens, the plastic almost snapping beneath her fingertips, and she feels her eyes grow big and her heart skip a beat as she cries:

“No!”

For a second, all is quiet. Then, Jon’s voice returns: _“Oh, my God!”_ He sounds out of breath. The shock is obvious from his pitched tone. _“Oh, my God, Dany, a car just crashed outside the telephone box!”_

“Are you okay?” she shouts. But she already knows - because the officers are slipping away. They’re backing out of the hallway, the shadows following them into the night.

“ _Jesus,”_ Jon breathes, _“if I’d left just a few seconds earlier-”_

“But you’re okay?”

 _“I’m good, I’m good. Oh wow, I’m really glad I called!”_ The door shuts. Daenerys looks out of the window. There is no sign of them. Her garden is bright with freshly fallen snow, the flakes glittering in the pale sunlight. There is no darkness. There is no fear. There is just her, in the warm kitchen, and Jon, alive again.

_“Okay, I better go check if everyone’s alright. I’ll come back as soon as I can, okay?”_

“Okay.”

 _“I love you!”_ Jon calls before the line dies.

Daenerys takes in a sobbing breath. When she breathes out, it’s with a bright smile on her lips: “I love you too.”

The radio crackles: “Wrap up warm - we’ve had reports of snow falling all across the country,” and Daenerys laughs, because it’s the same, but it’s different, and when the radio host asks:

“What do we all love about Christmas?” she answers:

“Being together!” and the radio agrees:

“Yep, seeing those we love the most. So how about some _Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree_ with those dearest to us? Here’s _Mel Smith and Kim Wilde!”_

As the music fills the kitchen, Daenerys can’t help but dance. She’s crying, and she’s laughing, her chest hurting with happiness. It is the day before Christmas - the _last_ day before Christmas, and she’s never felt more grateful to be alive.

* * *

“You’re going to make me fat!” Eddard moans as Daenerys brings out another tin of biscuits, but he dips into the box all the same and fills his hands with gingerbread.

Arya looks up from her pile of presents as she reminds him: “You already are!” and the living room erupts in laughter.

There’s Eddard, on the sofa, the paper crown from his Christmas cracker tight on his hair, and there’s Arya and Rickon and Bran, all rummaging through the gifts beneath the tree, trying to find another with their name on it. Sansa stands by the fireplace with a glass of mulled wine, chatting with Margaery as Robb clears the dinner table. The house is full of noise and chatter and joy, and Daenerys now knows: _this is why I had so much food._

Jon slips up behind her, an arm wrapping around her waist as he drags her close. “Hey, you,” he says, pecking her hair, and Daenerys leans into his hold with a smile as she says:

“Hey yourself.” He smells of sugar cookies and cigarette smoke and whisky. She pushes her nose into his jumper as she takes in the scents. “It’s good to have you back,” she whispers.

Jon laughs confused: “Back from where?”

“From yesterday.”

“Mhmm.” Jon pulls the tin from her hands and places it on the table before hugging her close. “You’re making no sense.”

“That’s okay,” Daenerys says, nestling close, “I’m just happy to be together.”

The past few days feel like a bad dream. In fact, Daenerys is no longer sure if anything ever really took place. When she woke up that morning, it felt like a nightmare had vanished, leaving her feeling refreshed and excited for the day. She prepared food. She waited for Jon to return with his family, all stuck inside his small car, all bustling with presents and smiles.

 _Perhaps,_ she thinks, glancing around at all of them with a sense of satisfaction, _it really was all in my head._

“Are you collecting these or something?” Olenna comes waddling out from the bathroom, holding up not one, not two, but _four_ bunches of mistletoe. They’re all looking wet and dreary. Daenerys stares at them in shock whilst Jon accepts the cuttings, looking perplexed.

“Where did you find these?” he asks.

“On the sink. Now, that’s not good housekeeping, you know,” the old woman says, sending Daenerys a pointed look. “They could block the drain if you’re not careful.”

“Be nice, we’re guests,” Margaery reminds her, patting her grandmother’s shoulder with an embarrassed look at Daenerys. “Don’t mind her.”

“Don’t mind me!” Olenna rolls her eyes and staggers off to the sofa, taking a seat next to Eddard, “I’m just old and silly!”

 _“This_ is silly!” Rickon cries. Everyone looks toward the boy as he fiddles with something under the tree. “Look how small it is! Who would want _that!”_

“Who _would_ want that,” Jon says as he strolls off to see Rickon, leaving Daenerys with the wet mistletoe. She turns and twists the bunches in her hand, feeling the berries, touching the soft bows, and thinking:

_So it did all really happen, again and again?_

“Who would want that!” Jon repeats, his voice a bit more loud.

Daenerys glances around. Everyone is staring at her, looking excited. Even Olenna’s cheeks have flushed. “What?” she asks. Then she sees:

there, kneeling on the floor before the tree, is Jon, and in his hand is a small, little present. A little box. With a large ring inside of it.

“Jon!” Daenerys gasps in surprise, the mistletoe slipping from her hands, the bunches scattering on the floor. “You _didn’t!”_

“Why did you think I had to leave early yesterday?” Jon asks, the wry smile on his lips growing. “Come over here,” he urges, and Daenerys steps across the mistletoe, their existence no longer a matter of concern, as she approaches Jon. Her eyes flicker between him and the ring. It glimmers lightly in the fairy lights on the tree. “Dany,” he says, taking a hold of one of her hands, “when I was almost hit by that car yesterday, I realised that if I were to die-”

“Don’t,” Daenerys begs, unable to even think about that reality again.

“-I realised that if I were to die,” Jon presses on, sending her a knowing look, “my only regret would be to not have married the most wonderful woman in my life. So please, would you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?”

Daenerys feels her eyes fill with tears, but for once it’s not out of grief - it’s from joy. As she sobs, Olenna impatiently shouts:

“Oh, just say yes!” and as everyone chuckles, Daenerys whispers:

“Yes, of course I will!” and Jon jumps to his feet and pulls her in for a kiss. As the room erupts into cheer, Daenerys loses herself in Jon’s warm, loving touch, and she knows at once: she would do everything again, and again, and again, if it meant ending up with him in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 6th of December! I hope you liked my contribution to this year's Jonerys Advent 2020. The idea behind this story came to me back when I was doing Inktober, but it took a good, long evening of drinking and chatting with DragonandDirewolf to flesh out the idea fully. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing!
> 
> A massive thank you to my wife for the lovely drawings. Not only did she have to give Daenerys 80s makeup and Jon a mullet, she was also forced to draw an awkward prom photo. I may owe her an extra gift this Christmas.. (Yes, she knows the photo is awful - that's the point!).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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